Dash steps to the side and puts the tray carefully down on a cooling rack propped up next to the stovetop. He takes the oven mitt off and lays it next to that, then picks up a spoon from a tile spoon rest and pokes it into a frying pan. Meat is sizzling in spaghetti sauce. It’s not from a jar, I can tell that much. After a moment he puts the spoon back down and turns back to me.

“You thought this was a sex date?”

I nod, speechless still from my embarrassment.

“What gave you that impression?” He steps closer. The air between us heats up. I want to fan myself with my hand. “I said I was cooking, didn’t I?”

I swallow hard. “Yeah, but you—” I cut my glance down at the front of his shorts. “The store—”

He looks down at his tented shorts and nods. “It’s a dead giveaway, isn’t it? My fault, in a way. I saw you pull in and watched you get out of the car.”

“You watched me step out onto the driveway and that—”

“That’s what happened,” he says, moving closer still.

We stand that way for several heartbeats. His breath is in my ears. Is that his heartbeat, or mine?

“I liked it earlier,” I whisper, putting my hands up on his chest as if I’d never taken them away in the first place.

“Are you sure?” he murmurs, bending down to speak directly into my ear. “We’re always going to be working against each other, you know. I’m going to open my shop.” There’s a breath of a pause. “Even if you beg.”

The word beg is hot between my legs, a jolt of pure desire. “I’ll never beg you for anything,” I say, brushing my lips across the side of his neck. He smells like safety, like cooking and a recent trip to the shower, like he’d never have a reason to run away, even if something truly fucked up happens. That kind of thing has happened to me before. It could happen again. That’s why I’m working in Lakewood. But I can’t think of that now.

The coffee shops drop away into the corner of my mind that I usually reserve for shit I don’t care about, like actually drinking coffee and horror movies. I press my lips into his skin a little harder as his hands slide around my waist, tugging me into him that last inch.

His hand comes up to my chin, tilting my face up until our lips are almost touching. I forget that I spoke until he answers me, his words melting the rest of my thoughts away.

“We’ll see about that.”

Amelia Wilde doesn’t always write about billionaires, but when she does, they’re alphas with hearts of gold and panty-dropping good looks. She doesn’t always write about small-town men, but when she does, they’re too hot to handle and good with their hands. She always writes about sexy heroes who go after what they want and heroines with enough spark and drive to power an entire city. She always wants the perfect happy ending. She will always accept free cookies.

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